Rock n roll stars Imaginary stories of rock music Enrico Mattioli Copyright © 2020 Enrico Mattioli All rights reserved. ISBN: 9798624507555 DEDICATIONS The events narrated in this book are the result of imagination and love for the characters treated, but exist only in my fantasy. It’s all fiction, of course. CONTENTS 1 Mister Pete 2 Mister Keith 3 Mister John 4 Miss Janis 5 Mister Chuck 6 Miss Patti 7 Mister Syd 8 Miss Debbie 9 Mister Cheeta 10 Sir Mick 11 Mr Keith, Mr James, Mr John 12 Mister Stuart 13 Mister Keith – two - 14 The sergeant 15 Mister Bob 16 The diabetic guitarist 17 The quick tempered guitarist 18 Johnny B. Cool 19 Conclusions IMAGINARY STORIES OF ROCK MUSIC Johnny B. Boogie is the owner of this imaginary pub where he can meet his idols. It's everyone's dream, basically, and Johnny manages to make it happen in his mind. His name comes from the famous song by Chuck Berry, Johnny B. Goode, because according to Johnny B. Boogie, in the rock and roll scene everyone should be called "Johnny something" and this consideration is a tribute to the great Chuck as supposed father of rock music; so, even the waiters are called Johnny B. Strong, Johnny B. Bup, Johnny Stand By, Johnny B. Cool. Johnny B. Boogie is an eccentric fan, but not a dangerous one, a gloomy guy who has shut down to escape the greyness of life and who loves so much rock stars to accept their limits, excesses, contradictions; even the betrayals: who can show such loyalty? Johnny evokes their spirit and his idols come to the rescue to shake him, as if they were an inner voice or a speaking soul. Life is hard and often the only thing left is the consolation of a beer. www.enricomattioli.com/enrico-mattioli-3/ 1 MISTER PETE Mister Pete, the glorious guitarist who smashed guitars, said - I am like a big stone against that everyone is going to piss against, slowly crumbling. I was a faithful reader of Rockstar, the music magazine creates in 1980 and one day I read Pete's interview. I applauded him and made him my second supposed uncle, along with Keith Richards. I love these people. They were my education. They sacrificed themselves to teach us to stay in the world. Yes, I know I'm exaggerating, but I've already said that they were (and still are) my idols. Now I'm just a little bit more cheeky than before, they'll forgive me, but who don’t will get it soon and so, it's better to jump over. I have many things, but they are all imaginary. I have a personal and abstract vocabulary in which I break down some terms by modifying the meanings. And I have an imaginary pub where the beer does not make you sweat after a few minutes like a fountain. And I can smoke cigar or cigarette because it certainly won’t do you any harm. Sitting at my table next to the window, I watch the street go on the street waiting for some of the mentioned men to come and see me. We talk about the times gone by, I can ask every question because in my pub they relax and aren’t moody even if this depends on the questions. Rock stars are animals and like beasts have that particular intuition to know when to trust. They trust me, I won’t be a prince of the intellect, but I will not betray them. The fact that some are dead and others are still on this earth is not a strange story because it’s not about going beyond time and space and matter. It’s about the messages they have left or the things they have said. They talk about life, bullshit, and good moments. ROCK N ROLL STARS – imaginary stories of rock music - So I said, indeed, I wrote, that I was reflecting on Mister Pete's statement about the stone where he would go to dig. In fact, everything changes. Our body (although we do everything to hide the signs that time leaves), our ideas (not always but sometimes), our personalities (for instinct of defence), but also change things around us. The places we have went, the people, your idols, your customs, your habits and your needs. One day, referring to the verse of My Generation (I want to die before I’m old) I said to Pete, “Is it really you that talks about the stone that crumbles?” “Why?” he asked. “It’s a contradiction,” I responded. – “First you wanted to die and now you’re talking about resisting time?” “Ah, damn that verse. It only got me a bunch of scratches. Let's go, everyone is trying to resist. What should I do? Kill myself to be consistent?” “Ah, kill myself to be consistent: beautiful, this could be the verse for another song, Pete…” “Everyone in rock has written verses on rocks that roll… and mine isn’t a verse, but only a damn interview!” “Everyone who?” “Well Dylan, and also Muddy Waters, who gave the name to the Rolling Stones…” “Ah, Dylan…” “Oh sure, everyone fills your mouth with Dylan…” “Dylan is Dylan…” “What do you mean? No, tell me: what are you referring to with this? Am I not at the same level as Dylan?” “You don’t like Dylan?” “Of course I like Dylan.” “And so?” “Well, I smashed guitars. Understand?” “No.” He took a sip and thought for a minute. His lips were shaking while savouring the beer. Then he said, "Me neither. I usually find myself in front of a journalist who says yes. It's a way of turning a page. Clear?” “Oh yes, now it’s clear.” “Good. It's only rock and roll, after all”, he said, looking at me cautiously, indicating not to add anything, knowing full well that he had quoted a piece of the Stones. I just kept asking what relationship he kept with them, with the Rolling Stones. He didn’t answer straight away, he grimaced. “I love Mick,” he tells to me. www.enricomattioli.com/enrico-mattioli-3/ “And Keith?”, I asked clumsily. Pete didn’t add anything else, so I explained to him that even Keith Richards considered him unkempt as he did, like Pete, in short. He mumbled a series of epithets in archaic English (I must add, to make it easier to understand, that in this strange place a common language is spoken but insults are in the mother tongue of everyone) of which I only understood the repeated use of fucking and fucking. I thought it would be best to stay silent for a few moments and let him cool down. I changed tactics, trying to flatter him.” “I like your solo album”. “Which one?”. “White City”. “Ah, to remember White city fighting,” Pete sang, proud". “Great album, Pete, well done”. “Yeah. When you leave a group like mine, all solo projects are claims.” “As in?” “Well, it’s like saying, this is me. I’m the best one.” “My fans love all members of the disbanded groups”. “I know. But it’s right to reiterate. So much for playing.” “Do you like this beer?”. “Yes. I’ll take another”. Pete stands up and goes towards the counter. He orders and returns to the table. On the small stage there was a guy playing Billy Bragg's pieces including Greetings To The New Brunette. When the verb with another pint of beer came, I always moved. It also went that way this time. Pete came over and approached the boy. On the second lap of the piece, when he was about to repeat the verse, Pete joined the choir another pint of beer, mimed the guitar solo, finished the drawer and pulled the mug on the floor, splitting it as if it had been his old guitar, as if it was the old times. Then he said goodbye, approached the cashier, paid for what he drank and disappeared with all the answers that time I did not have time to ask. I went out and saw him moving away. Mister Pete has a unique walk: short steps and then he jumps, like when he’s on the stage in front of the crowd, he twisted his arm on the guitar. I smiled, fixated on the pub's sign, and I watched the sea which obviously was not there. ROCK N ROLL STARS – imaginary stories of rock music - www.enricomattioli.com/enrico-mattioli-3/ 2 MISTER KEITH I have many things, but they are imaginary. Rock has meant a lot and continues to represent a lot. I need it, and yet music is not enough for me. I want them, those who made rock and by doing it, they fucked me forever too. Inventing a place like this was the only way to deal with my beloved ones. It is all in my head; it is just in my imagination. It is just rock and roll. It is a sacred place, the pub. Holiness and rock and roll: well, you know how it is, right? The benches, the tables, the urban style and its metropolitan atmosphere, this monastic silence that fuels the imagination, or maybe it is just the beer’s fault that makes me rave, who cares? Two guys sit three tables away from mine. The jingling of their mugs awakens me from my considerations. When they recognize the man who enters and sits at my table, the two keep turning around.